A Kiss Is Just A Kiss
by On-the-right-road
Summary: This story began life as a brief fic-let continuing the scene in the church hall kitchen when Patrick proposes to Shelagh. It was originally meant to be just a one-shot but seems to have taken on a life of its own as the relationship between Shelagh and Patrick evolves. Rated K for some adult themes in later chapters.
1. A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

Scene: The Kitchen

She cannot tear her eyes from his dear, rugged, wondrous face any more than she can dim the smile of pure and utter joy which shines from her own. He is gazing at her with an intensity and a reverence which she has never encountered before, a look which makes her feel safe and untethered, both at the same time.

She feels his gentle grasp on her hand tighten as he glances quickly at the ring he has just bestowed on her finger and then back up at her beaming face.

"Do you think...?" he begins hesitantly. He clears his throat and tries again: "Would you mind if...?"

Her smile widens in delight; she has never seen him so tongue-tied, so adorably flustered.

"Yes?" she prompts gently, equally curious as to what it is he is trying to say.

He seems to find his resolve in her smile and fixes her with an earnest gaze. "Would it be all right if I were to kiss the bride-to-be?"

The words steal her breath away. She finds herself taking a step forward to steady herself and then she is in his arms as he moves to meet her.

She braces herself against his chest and his arms snake around her waist. Looking up at him like this is an entirely new proposition. The earnestness of his gaze has not waned but his breath, puffing down softly on to her cheek, is as shaky as her own. Tentatively she reaches up to lay her palm flat on his cheek. His eyes flutter shut at her touch.

"Patrick," she whispers, imbuing his name with all the emotions coursing through her in that moment; awe, wonder, adoration, love and - most thrillingly of all - desire.

Emboldened by being in his embrace, she feathers her fingers and strokes them down to his lips. His eyes fly open; she brushes her thumb across his full lower lip.

"Patrick?" she repeats softly. "The answer is yes. I want you to kiss me. I need you to."

The fire-flecked depths of his rich brown eyes seem to blaze at her entreaty.

Wordlessly he moves his hands up to caress her face and her vision becomes filled with the sight of his lips moving towards hers.

The first touch of his mouth against hers is feather-light, hesitant. Maddeningly slowly, he kisses first her top lip, then her bottom one, then each corner of her mouth in turn before finally closing his lips completely over hers. The movement of his mouth is gentle, reverent, achingly tender. It makes her feel weak, trembly, but then - all of a sudden - it isn't enough and she presses upwards against him, seeking more contact. His hands move back down to circle her waist and she slides her hand up from his cheek to clasp the back of his neck, her other hand still trapped between them, her fingers splayed where she can feel the steady thrum of his heart.

Her actions elicit a soft groan from him and he accedes to her wishes by tightening his hold on her, drawing her closer still. She feels him part her lips with his own, sighing into her mouth and deepening the kiss.

She stands on tip-toe, eager to experience more of each wonderful new sensation; his taste - tea and toothpaste and a hint of tobacco mingled with a tang which is unmistakably him; his touch as his hands roam restlessly from her hips to her waist to her back and round again and his mouth speaks silent words of love to her; the sight of him which her eyes afford only in brief snatches - his own eyes tightly shut as he worships her with his kiss; the sound of their breathing; synchronised, hitching, sighing, quickening.

Her hand moves further up into his hair, pulling his head down to hers as she feels her legs begin to give way. He breaks contact briefly to steady her and then returns to his ministrations with renewed intent, his lips moving softly yet insistently, claiming her for his own, her lips parting once again to allow him to do so.

For endless moments they kiss. And they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss. Months of unspoken longing and denial and despair and solitude are erased as they move together, perfectly attuned and in perfect synchronicity.

Finally they part and she blinks open her eyes to find his adoring gaze magnified a thousand-fold.

"Shelagh," he murmurs, "Oh_, Shelagh. _You are..." His words taper off and he grazes his knuckle against her cheek tenderly.

"Yes,"she whispers back in acknowledgement of all he is trying to say but doesn't need to. "So are you."

Her hand still rests in his hair and, as she withdraws it, she lets out a quiet giggle."I'm afraid I've rather mussed up your hair, Patrick." She reaches up again to try to smooth it back into place but his hand catches hers and draws it to his lips.

"Darling, it doesn't matter. I want you to leave your mark on me. You already own me, heart, body and soul."

Her thousand-watt smile returns and she moves her hand back into his hair, stroking it where it flops over his forehead and then drawing his head down towards hers again. Just before their lips meet once more he hears her say "In that case Dr Turner... Where were we?"

THE END...?

**_Dedicated to my friends on tumblr and inspired by Dr Turner's mussy hair. :-) Reviews are like manna from heaven! All gratefully received and devoured._**


	2. A Sigh Is Just A Sigh

Scene: The Hospital

Shelagh strides hurriedly down the corridor of the Kenilworth Row Maternity Hospital. To anyone watching she has every appearance of the devoted nurse urgently attending to her duties. In truth another kind of duty calls her onwards. Her place in the hospital is assured, her skills in high demand. As word has spread of the availability of wonders such as gas and air, so admissions are increasing week-on-week and the need for a permanent presence from Nonnatus House has become unavoidable. Truth be told, it suits her circumstances perfectly; she has resumed her old quarters in the convent but divides her time mainly between the hospital and the occasional home visit. And, most ideally of all, Patrick has his office here.

Reaching his door, she taps on it twice and enters without waiting for a response. She knows he will be writing up his notes from the earlier Kelly delivery - a breech birth which had tested both of their skills to the limit.

"Patrick?"

He looks up as she enters and beams with delight as he sees her turn and twist the lock behind her. "Shelagh!" he breathes, her name a song on his lips.

They have had so few moments alone since becoming engaged. That day - that wonderful, joyous, momentous day - had marked the emergence of Shelagh soon-to-be Turner as a bride-to-be and the awakening in her of a desire which she doubts will ever wane; the need to run her fingers through his hair, to draw him down into a tender kiss, to feel him press her body to his own. Being with him in this way now seems to her as necessary as air and she is almost breathless with the want of it, for the need of him. It still fills her with a sense of wonder that something as simple as a kiss from this man, something she had never experienced and never yearned for until recently, can conquer all other thoughts so completely.

A handful of snatched moments in his office are all they have managed in the week since she has resumed her duties as a midwife and nurse . At times the desire to reach out and touch him has been almost physically painful, made all the more acute because she knows the impropriety of it could have them both brought up on charges of professional misconduct. And Shelagh and Patrick are nothing if not model professionals, as devoted to their duties as they are to one another. Yet when they work side-by-side, or walk past each other, or even make eye contact across a ward she can see him warring with the same conflicting desires which beset her.

It had startled her at first, this newly-discovered passion for him. Years of devotion to her orders had made her believe that she could live peacefully without the pull of such oh-so-human desires. One press of his lips to hers had shattered that illusion completely. Since knowing his touch, she feels branded, marked as his own, just as surely as he is hers.

Now he meets her in two quick strides, his arms reaching to receive her. Aside from uttering each others' names no other words are spoken; none are needed. With a deep sigh, she slides her hands around his neck and tilts her head to meet his rapidly descending lips. Their mouths meld hungrily together and her eyes flutter shut as she gives herself over to the sensations of being worshipped and adored by his touch. His hands on the small of her back are pressing her to him even as she moves her fingers up to curl reflexively in his hair, tugging him down to meet her; it seems the contact can never be enough. His tongue laps insistently at her lips and she parts them to allow him the access they both desire. She feels rather than hears a moan of gratitude emanate from him, an almost imperceptible shudder as their tongues meet and dance and caress each other.

He is kissing her with aching tenderness, with utter adoration and, increasingly, with unrestrained ardour; she kisses him back with equal fervour. This act, with this man, is now the centre of her gravity; the pull of it grounds her and keeps her tethered to him even more than the beautiful word 'fiancée' can encompass. Everything they are to each other - everything they will ever be to each other - is expressed in the way his mouth moves reverently against hers. It speaks of the love they have found so unexpectedly in each other, of the promise of their wedding day and the passion of their wedding night to come, of marriage and motherhood, of anniversaries and birthdays and celebrations and a lifetime of memories still to be shared.

She breaks the kiss briefly to drink in the sight of him: his eyes are liquid fire as he meets her gaze, his lips partly kiss-swollen, his cheeks slightly flushed. And his hair - his adorable thick, dark mane - is flopping down over his eyes where she has been raking her fingers through it. She attempts to brush it back into place but it falls forward again; she feels it tickle her cheek as he moves his mouth to hers once more. She giggles into the kiss as the joy of it all bubbles unstoppably to the surface. She senses his lips stretch into a smile even as he continues to kiss her and she knows he is sharing the same feeling of wondrous happiness. His hands draw circles on her back and draw heat from her very core wherever they touch.

A moment of melancholy intrudes and she sighs against his touch; this feeling will have to sustain her until the next unknowable moment they can snatch together.

She feels him slide his hands to her hips and move her gently away from him. She knows he is attempting to reign in his body's instinctive reaction to her.

"I'm sorry my darling." He lets out a sigh of his own and touches his forehead to hers before pulling back to fix her with a rueful grin. "You have no idea what you do to me."

She answers with a playful smile and fleetingly brushes herself against him causing him to emit a strangled gasp.

"Patrick, darling. I am a midwife. And you are a doctor. Of course I have an idea..."

He barks out a laugh and cups her cheek with his palm, gazing at her with open adoration.

"Besides," she continues, her voice a shiver, "Two weeks from today I'll know for certain. We both will..."

Her sudden earnestness steals his breath away. The only response he can form is the one which is now echoing through his mind like an insistent drumbeat:

"I love you," he chokes out huskily.

He had intended to voice those particular words over a romantic meal he is secretly planning for the following week, but they will not wait. Her faith in him, her certainty in their shared path deserves no less than his total honesty, his immediate affirmation.

He watches tears spring to her eyes even as a smile of pure joy forms on her lips. She steps forward to bury her head in his chest and his arms rise instinctively to encircle and protect her. He feels her next words reverberate straight to his heart: "I love you too Patrick. So very, very much."

They stand in the comfort of each other's embrace for unknown minutes until a hiss on the crackly tannoy breaks the spell; it announces a request for Dr Turner to report immediately to Bevan Ward.

He sighs and places one last fleeting kiss on his bride-to-be's lips before reluctantly releasing his hold on her.

"Duty calls."

"Yes."

_**Please review if you have the time! **_

_**Dedicated to the folks on tumblr who helped inspire this, with special thanks to Amber for beta-reading and feedback. :-)**_


	3. The Fundamental Things Apply

Scene 1: Thursday - Outside Nonnatus House

He is kissing her a chaste goodbye on the steps of Nonnatus House. It is the first time they have displayed affection in public, but any concerns of impropriety are hushed by simple expediency: they will not see each other again for nearly two days and she knows she needs one last brush of his lips against hers to sustain her. The next time they kiss they will be standing on the steps of the altar and they will finally - joyously - be husband and wife.

They have agreed that they will not see each other on the eve of the wedding. Tradition, deference, superstition; all have played a part in their decision. But fundamentally Shelagh knows it is because each of them needs time to adjust to the rapidly-looming reality. She will soon be Mrs Turner; she will be living in his home, as his wife, as step-mother to his son, as the 'lady of the house'. And she will be his lover. The last thought thrills her in a way she had never thought possible; the others fill her with an apprehension she is trying hard to vanquish.

Still, he is kissing her now with gentle reverence, a promise and an affirmation on his lips. He sighs her name as they part. Their eyes meet, love arcing to fill the space between them. Once again she senses an elemental pull to him, a feeling that he is rapidly becoming the centre of her world. He is looking at her with such tender adoration, such concern that it is almost too much to bear.

She ducks her eyes and melts further into his embrace, reluctant to leave the shelter and sanctity of his arms.

"You must go in, my darling." He places an apologetic kiss on the top of her head and feels her arms tighten around him instead. "You'll catch a chill if you stay out here much longer," he persists.

"Yes," she murmurs, making no effort to move.

He laughs softly and gently begins to prise her hands from his waist. "We can't have you being ill on our wedding day can we, my love?"

"No, Doctor." She smiles ruefully and stands on tiptoe to press a final kiss to his lips, whispering a hushed "I love you."

He brushes a thumb gently over her lips in a tender anointing. "I love you too, my darling. So very much." He cups her cheek and then forces himself to take a step back lest he be drawn into her arms again.

"Goodnight Patrick," a quiet murmur of breath. As she reluctantly turns to ascend the final steps to the convent he calls her name softly: "Shelagh, wait. I almost forgot. There's something I want you to have." He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and withdraws an envelope, holding it out to her.

She reaches for it curiously and finds her own first name inked on the front in his distinctive doctor's handwriting.

"I wanted you to have something of mine for tomorrow, while we're apart. It's just some things I wanted you to know," he swallows and adds, "Before we are married."

She is touched beyond all measure by his thoughtfulness. She has told him how much the letters he sent to the sanatorium meant to her, when she had finally found the strength to read them; that they had ultimately confirmed the path she had chosen was the right one, the one which would lead her back to him so that they could embark on a love and a life together.

"Thank you," she whispers in a voice tinkling with unshed tears. He smiles to himself as her fingertips reverently caresses the envelope where he has written her name and, on the reverse, the letters S.W.A.L.K.

"You're more than welcome, my love," he replies. He forces himself to turn round then, walking down the steps of Nonnatus House to his waiting car.

Just as he reaches for the door handle he hears his name called, hears a flurry of footsteps behind him and turns to find Shelagh racing to his now open arms. He catches her, the momentum turning them round so her back is against the car door and he is leaning over her.

"Shelagh!" he laughs, half delighted, half embarrassed. "What if one of the Sisters is watching out of the window?"

"They won't be," she declares breathlessly. "They'll be at Evensong." She is looking up at him with such eager adoration that he finds his resolve and his heart melting. She seems so young, so innocent at times and it makes him love her all the more to see her so seemingly carefree after the months of silent suffering she has endured. He draws her to him once more, murmuring her name as he tucks her head under his chin and presses her close.

Her voice muffled, she says "I'm sorry, Darling. I was just so touched by your letter."

"You haven't read it yet!" he points out, amusement evident in his tone.

She looks up at him and boldly takes the opportunity to steal another quick kiss. "I know. But I know it will make me cry. Just like your other ones did."

"That isn't my intention," he admonishes gently. "And it wasn't when you were ill. I needed you to know that I cared for you, that I'd be there for you whatever choice you made."

He looks down at her again, safely tucked into his embrace, her arms resting on his, her beautiful face upturned to him, and he feels a wave of emotion wash over him.

"But I still can't believe you chose me. I feel like the luckiest man in the world." His voice cracks slightly even as her smile deepens.

"There was no other choice," she asserts quietly. "You wrote exactly what I needed to hear. And you made me cry with happiness." She locks eyes with him. With quietly assured certainty she tells him: "You make me happy Patrick."

He can't stop himself leaning down and kissing her again; he finds he can't resist her - and nor she him. He presses her gently back against the car and tangles his fingers through the silkiness of her hair. Her own fingers caress his jaw line as he moves his mouth tenderly over hers.

The sound of a bell and a loudly exclaimed "Dr Turner! Kindly unhand that nurse immediately!'' makes them break off in mid-kiss and they swiftly step apart. He looks round quickly to see if one of the Sisters has emerged after all, only to be greeted by the sight of Trixie almost doubled over with laughter by the bicycle rack.

Still giggling, she greets him: "Good evening Dr Turner." The blush which creeps up his cheeks only spurs her on: "Here to talk to your fiancée are you?" she asks with eyebrows artfully raised.

Amused as she is by Trixie's teasing, Shelagh feels the need to spare Patrick any further blushes: "Good evening Trixie. Dr Turner and I were just talking as a matter of fact. About a letter he has given me to read on our wedding eve."

Not to be deflected, a mischievous glint sparkles in Trixie's eye and she replies: "Well, from where I was standing it looked more like lip-reading!"

Patrick sighs in resigned exasperation and interjects: "Trixie, will you walk Shelagh inside please? I must go, it's nearly time to pick Timothy up from Cubs." He turns to Shelagh and places a chaste kiss on her cheek, whispering sotto voce, "I promise I will kiss you properly again when you are Mrs Turner." She suppresses a secret smile and returns the gesture by kissing his cheek declaring, "Goodnight Dr Turner," this time more clearly for Trixie's benefit.

Shelagh finds her arm linked with that of her irrepressible colleague as they watch Patrick's green MG reverse out and pull away from Nonnatus House. Despite herself, she lets out a soft sigh when he is no longer in sight.

"Come on!" Trixie chivvies her, "Let's get you inside!" As they walk up the steps she asks brightly: "So are you nervous about the big day?"

"Yes and no," Shelagh hedges. "I mean I'm completely certain of my choice." She smiles as she thinks of Patrick's promise once again, "But I suppose I'm still a bit apprehensive about some aspects of the day." Truth be told, she is still not entirely comfortable with the prospect of being the centre of attention, even though she has had a taster of it with the nurses of Nonnatus House ooh-ing and aah-ing around her as she tried on the beautiful wedding gown Chummy has fashioned for her.

"Well if you need any advice on that score then you must come and knock on my door!"

A look of confusion passes over Shelagh's face. "But you've never been married Trixie...?"

"I know I haven't, silly! It doesn't mean I don't know a thing or two about the ways of men."

Shelagh laughs softly and tries to put her colleague straight: "I was talking about the demands on a bride during the wedding day Trixie, not the wedding night."

"Oh!" Trixie pouts "Are you sure? I mean you were a nun not so very long ago after all."

"Yes, and I was also - am also - a midwife. And Dr Turner is a doctor. We'll be fine, don't you worry." Shelagh is finding her younger colleague's line of questioning quite amusing, but the next statement causes a furious blush to rise up her cheeks: "Well I suppose you were quite getting into the swing of things a few moments ago! Tell me," she whispers conspiratorially, "Is he an awfully good kisser?"

They have reached the top of the steps and Shelagh busies herself with ringing the bell, hoping that someone will grant them admittance fairly quickly.

"Well?!" Trixie exclaims, her hands on her hips as she senses Shelagh's evasiveness.

Shelagh turns round to face her and is struck by a sudden 'devil-may-care' feeling. After all, she will be a married woman in less than 2 days time and this is her trusted friend and colleague she is talking to. She smiles shyly and confides: "Yes, Patrick is a very good kisser." Too late she realises her faux pas. As Trixie's face breaks into a triumphant smirk she tries to recover herself: "Not that I have any comparative data to... umm, it's not as if I have... I mean it's ... "

"You mean it's fun kissing him!" Trixie finishes for her and Shelagh seizes on the word in relief. "Yes, that's what I meant - it's fun!" The blush is still creeping up her cheeks as the door is opened by Jane who gives her a knowing smile. Shelagh gets the sense that she has heard more than just the tail-end of the conversation.

"Well, goodnight ladies!" she exclaims with forced jollity the moment she steps through the door.

"Won't you be joining us for a cup of Horlicks?" Jane asks in slight consternation.

"No, no thank you very much, I'm very tired and I think I might prefer an early night."

Jane nods dubiously and Shelagh gladly takes her leave, walking quickly down the corridor towards her room. Not quickly enough, however, to avoid hearing Trixie exclaim mischievously: "Poor thing! She must be tired from all that fun she's been having..."

Scene IÌ: Friday - Inside Nonnatus House

Shelagh closes the door to her room and leans her forehead against it with a weary sigh. It is the first opportunity she has had all day to close the world outside, to gather her thoughts and enjoy a few moments of reflective silence. Her young colleagues are probably more giddy with excitement about her fast-approaching nuptials than she is.

She knows they mean well, that they want nothing but the best for her on her big day, but the whirl of last-minute arrangements, dress-fittings and non-stop chatter has left her worn out and wearisome. She is not accustomed to being coo-ed over, admired, pampered, regaled with advice or any of the other myriad types of behaviour which an imminent wedding seems to inspire in others. For Shelagh, tomorrow is about marrying the man she loves, nothing more.

She crosses to the bed and slides her hand under the pillow. His letter is safely tucked there. She pulls it free and examines it once more, her fingers caressing his handwriting where he has inscribed her name on the front and a loving acronym on the reverse.

She has been saving it for sustenance - on a day when she has been starved of his company she knows she will need it. Now she feels the need to retreat from all talk of veils and flowers and make-up and to immerse herself in his words, in the simple truth of what tomorrow will bring.

She sits in the armchair next to the dresser and gently slides a fingernail underneath the flap of the envelope, careful not to rip the part which he has Sealed With A Loving Kiss. She smiles to herself at the silly nature of the acronym but she knows just how apt it is for them; they have so often communicated in a code of silent gestures, unspoken words, understated declarations. But in their kisses they have found a way of saying so much more to each other than they have yet been able to give voice to.

When he had written to her a dozen or so times in the sanatorium each letter had run to no more than 1-2 pages. She had read them in one sitting, working through them in faithful chronological order, opening each one more eagerly than the last. And then she had re-read them every day for the following week until she was resolved in her course of action and ready to ring him, to return to him. In his somewhat spidery scrawl he had described how his work was progressing in Poplar, how Timothy was faring at school and how he coped with juggling the two disparate elements of his life; the mutinae and the importance of it. What was missing was plain to read between the lines: her place and presence in it.

In later letters he had taken to reminiscing about occasions when they had worked together, the triumphs of birth and the occasional tragedies of death. He had written plainly of his admiration for her skills, her unshakeable composure and her unbounded compassion. Unaccustomed to seldom even looking at her reflection in the mirror, she had been able to see herself anew through his words. And in them she found herself to be accomplished and respected – and cherished.

And then in the last two letters he had begun to detail the toll her absence was taking on him more overtly; how he found himself distracted with thoughts of her - so much so that he feared he might cause harm to a patient - how he was unable to sleep properly, how he was tormented not to have heard from her but equally tormented that it might mean she was suffering in silence. Nevertheless he had placed no expectation on her. He offered her his friendship and his support; he let her know that he would accept her back in whatever guise she chose, even as she knew the anguish a particular choice might cause him. His selflessness merely confirmed what she had already come to understand during their long separation: she loved him deeply. She was certain of it.

And now she is on the verge of affirming it to him and to the rest of the world. She yearns for tomorrow to come: to see him again, to stand beside him, to stake her life with his - and to spend the rest of it as his wife. She tries to calm her racing thoughts by turning her attention back to his letter. She unfolds it, finding to her surprise that there is a smaller envelope tucked inside. It is addressed simply 'My Love'. She sets it to one side and begins to read from the closely-written sheets he has set down for her:

My Darling Shelagh,

I once told you that I wished I had your faith. I am aware that, since then, I have given you cause to doubt and question it - and for that I am truly sorry. I know that your belief in the benevolence of a higher power and the goodness of the human spirit is an intrinsic part of you. I see it in everything you do - you apply compassion without judgement, caring without need of reward. And now you have placed your faith and trust in me and for that I am truly blessed.

My Darling, I want you to know that my own faith has been restored by your love. I was once a worn out, world-weary man, but now I have been granted the greatest of miracles: that you should love me and agree to spend your life with me. I believe it is God who brought you to me and I have thanked Him every day since you were cured, just as I started to pray to Him again when you were taken ill. I haven't spoken to you of it because I have had to make my own peace with the Lord, for straying from the path, for turning my back on Him. There are things I have experienced which I have not yet shared with you my love: unimaginable horrors during the war which stripped me of all belief. I chose to put my faith in science and medicine. But science and medicine alone cannot cure all ills. And they cannot explain the miracle of the connection I feel to you.

Before I was conscripted I had a faith; I trusted in God to see me through the war and to return me safely to my loved ones. I carried a cross given to me by my grandmother in the breast pocket of my tunic. It was my talisman, my link to my family and to our Lord. But I was on the beaches on 6th June 1944 and I saw so many others crying out for their families, torn apart by bombs and bullets and torn apart from all hope of salvation. I was a medic back then of course, and I did what I could for as many of those wretched souls as were brought before me. But it was not enough; many died in agony, some before I could even begin to tend to them. I lost my faith that day; when I returned home I discarded my cross and abandoned the church. The NHS became my religion; my crusade and my salvation.

It was my one comfort when you were first taken ill; that the triple treatment might be able to effect a miraculous cure. But it could not console me in my fears. I was terrified of losing you and I was powerless to do anything but wait for you to respond. My Darling Shelagh, I was already deeply in love with you by the time you were admitted. But I couldn't burden you any further with that knowledge, and so I turned to God. I took to carrying my grandmother's cross with me once again. I would hold it as I prayed for you. It would be on my desk when I wrote to you. And it was in my breast pocket when you made me the happiest man in all of Christendom by accepting a gift from myself and Timothy - accepting us, accepting me.

It has come to symbolise the purest love I have ever known, which is why I wanted you to receive it on the eve of our wedding. My love, please do me the honour of wearing it tomorrow as we exchange our vows. Your beauty is beyond enhancement, but the sight of my cross around your neck will be the final confirmation of what I know in my heart and soul to be true: that you will carry my love with you always.

I adore you now and forever.

Your devoted soon-to-be-husband,

Patrick.

Tears are flowing unashamedly down Shelagh's face as she re-folds the letter and picks up the small white envelope from her lap. She opens it reverently, tipping the contents into her palm. A tiny silver cross on a delicate curb chain nestles there, plain and unadorned. She stands and moves towards the mirror. Carefully she clasps the chain in place; the cross nestles around her neck and settles securely at the base of her throat. She knows she will never again take it off. Her tear-streaked reflection smiles back at her and, in a tone of love and wonder, she whispers a benediction of thanks he cannot hear: "Oh Patrick. My love..."

Scene III: Saturday - The Chapel, Nonnatus House

" ... by the power invested in me by Almighty God, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Shelagh looks up from their entwined fingers, entranced by the simple gold band adorning her hand, matching the one she has just bestowed on him. She can't stop smiling at the thought echoing ceaselessly, repeatedly, through her mind: they are married. Finally, they are married.

In this place where she has spent so long communing with God, both in peaceful contemplation and in agonised prayers for guidance, she has now renewed her commitment to Him and pledged her life, her love to the finest man she knows.

He is gazing directly at her now, a look of depthless love, of boundless happiness and of pure joy shining from his dear face. It makes her shiver with delight and she tightens her grip on his fingers.

He gently squeezes back and then reaches up to cup her cheek with his palm, his thumb brushing across her lower lip. She purses her lips to it before he withdraws it again. She is dimly aware that all eyes are on them, but their eyes are only for each other. She is held steady in his gaze, transfixed by the emotions she feels coursing and arcing between them.

"You may kiss the bride..."

The warm brown hue of his eyes dissolves into flecks of gold at the permission just granted. She sees his lips part slightly and, almost imperceptibly, her new name forms on them in an unvoiced question: "Mrs Turner?"

She gives her answer and her acceptance with a slow sweep of her eyelashes, swallowing down a wave of emotion which is threatening to overwhelm her. His smile deepens as he sees it and she thinks it makes him look twenty years younger, watching his face so animated and alive with joy.

Their gazes lock and eyes sparkle as they move towards each other, smiles widening with every inch travelled. Her eyelids only slip shut at the instant their mouths meet and she places her hand on his jaw, feeling the ripple of movement as he tilts his head and gently caresses her lips with his own.

She thought she had come to know all of the colours of his kiss, but this one is a hue of pure, dazzling, brilliant white. It soothes her with its sweet intensity even as the import of it scorches her soul; for the very first time she is kissing her _husband_, and he is kissing her back with all the tenderness she has come to know from him. She leans into his strength as he slowly pulls back and studies her face, her eyelids still fluttered shut.

"I love you," he tells her in a hushed voice, causing her eyes to blink open; he sees a corresponding sentiment brimming there.

A sense of contentment settles over him and, with a small bow of his head, he proffers her his arm: "Shall we then, Mrs Turner?"

Their arms linked, they turn to face the smiling faces of those who have come to bear witness to the happiest day of their lives.

As they make their way back down the aisle, good wishes showered on them from all sides, she knows that she is where she is meant to be, side by side by with the man she is meant to love.

It is a truth ordained by God and, on this day of all days, she is certain it is the only truth that matters.

_**Please review!**_


	4. Chapter 4

Just a brief note for anyone following this fic: I have posted Chapter 4 as a separate story entitled 'The World Will Always Welcome Lovers' (rated M).

Any and all reviews will be gratefully received!


	5. As Time Goes By - Part I

_**Apologies for the lengthy delay in bringing this chapter to fruition. It is quite long, composed of four parts which I hope to post in fairly quick order. As always, all feedback and reviews are gratefully received. :-)**_

Shelagh's Birthday

It is six months to the day since they wed and Shelagh can scarcely countenance the manner in which her life has changed. Where once her routine had been dictated by silence and solitary reflection, now she revels in commotion and chatter and a continual whirlwind of meals and appointments and engagements and outings. She has resumed her role as a midwife, but now she marries it with her role as a wife and mother. She has forsaken night shift work, but still the demands on her time are legion. Nevertheless, her enthusiasm for her work remains unfailing and boundless; by the manner in which she helps the women of the parish and by dint of loving and caring for her husband and stepson she feels she is serving God more so now than she has ever done, even in the devotions of her previous life. As she had insisted to Patrick when the subject of work first came up between them, she feels she cannot "sit idly by" while there is so much to be done.

The exception which proves the rule is late evening in the Turner household. The delight they take in each other's company is undimmed, only underlined by the fact that so many others place demands on their time. But whether they have - one or both - been on a callout or, more routinely, when they have navigated Timothy through his homework and negotiated him down to 5 minutes extra reading time before bed, still they try to make time to then curl into each other on the settee, either gently conversing or reading or listening to a favourite programme or piece of music - or even sometimes just sitting and being.

In the mornings, accustomed as she is to waking at dawn, Shelagh is often wont to slip downstairs while Patrick slumbers on, especially when she knows he has worked long hours and needs his rest. She likes to begin preparations for the family breakfast, indulging herself by singing softly along with the melodies on the wireless as she cracks eggs, butters bread and pours cereal. The morning soundtrack is further played out by the noise of a young boy clattering down the stairs a short while later, his father's heavier footsteps following swiftly on his heels. Much to Timothy's continued and vocalised distaste, Patrick often greets his wife by slipping his arms around her waist as she stands by the stove, planting a kiss on her cheek or her forehead and murmuring "Good Morning, my angel."

Today though, it is a kiss on the lips followed by those same words which awaken her. She blinks open her eyes and instinctively reaches for her glasses to try to ascertain the time in the still half-darkened bedroom. Instead she feels the frames slipped onto her face, and her eyes focus on her husband's face, hovering over hers. A playful smile twitches at his lips as he dips his mouth to hers once more. "Happy Birthday my darling," he intones quietly, lovingly. She smiles back and attempts to reach for him, only for him to straighten up, revealing a tray on the bedside table behind him. He motions for her to move over and she does so, sitting up as he places the tray on her lap and joins her on the bed. He leans into her and watches her face in earnest expectation.

"Patrick, what on earth...?" she begins as she surveys the bounty he has laid before her; a mound of wafer-thin smoked salmon piled onto two slices of toast sits alongside a glass of orange juice which, judging by the small pip she sees bobbing near the surface, he has obviously squeezed for her himself. Next to the plate a single red rose lies on top of a thick envelope with a distinctive tartan trim, her name inscribed on the front.

She indicates the food and asks: "Where on earth did you come by this? Surely we can't afford lux..." He silences her with a reassuring squeeze of her hand where it grips the tray and interjects: "Yes we can. Mr Stewart sold the salmon to me at a pittance. When I inquired about buying a small portion, he wouldn't let up until he'd got it out of me that it was for your birthday. I had the devil's own job getting him to accept any money at all; he insisted it was the least he could do to thank you for safely delivering his little Louise and saving her life."

Shelagh smiles at the bittersweet memory of that day. It had been a horrendously stressful labour but then, as matters worsened, Cynthia had rung for Dr Turner. Just his presence and the familiar comfort of working as a team with him had helped not only her, but poor Mrs Stewart too. The near-hysterical woman had been soothed by the doctor's calm explanation of what Sister Bernadette was attempting to do, so much so that she was able to accomplish manoeuvring mother and baby through the difficult breech birth without further incident or upset. When Mr Stewart had insisted on presenting "the good doctor" with a bottle of scotch to thank him for saving the day, he had gallantly demurred and glowingly ascribed all of the credit to the quietly beaming young nun who was even then coo-ing over the tiny baby girl and comforting her tear-streaked mother. His words had reached her though; they had burrowed into her heart and she had kept them tucked there, together with other signs and wonders which pointed to the fact that maybe, just maybe, she was not alone in her growing affections.

Now, barely a year later, he is sitting alongside her in their marital bed - her beloved husband. The newness of her status, the novelty of it, has not worn off and she still marvels at the near-constant affection which flows between them. That is not to say there haven't been occasional cross words spoken, though often they are borne more out of tiredness and frustration with circumstance than with each other. The main point of contention - his impatience with some of Timothy's more childlike behaviour - has been tempered by Shelagh's insistence that he will soon enough become a gangling young man - probably before they know it - and that they should cherish what remains of his boyhood.

The thought makes her start. "Where is Timothy?" she asks, half-wondering if he might come bursting through the door at any moment, brandishing a present, as he had done on Christmas Day - albeit that particular gift had been one that Shelagh had successfully picked out for him rather than vice-versa.

"I should imagine he's still sound asleep. It is only a quarter to seven, my love."

Shelagh looks round at the bedside clock which affirms the truth of the matter. Her face melts into a smile and she reaches for Patrick's hand, squeezing it then lifting it to her lips for a gentle kiss of benediction. "You needn't have got up so early for me. You need your sleep Patrick."

"I wanted to be the one who tended to you for a change. Besides, I can sleep later. Open your present?" He picks up the envelope and hands it to her, his eager enthusiasm reminding her once more of his son's delightful reactions to gift-giving at Christmas time.

She slides open the flap of the envelope carefully, marvelling at the luxurious feel of it and delighting in the paisley lining she sees inside. She slips out the contents and eyes them curiously. A thick pamphlet of some kind is embossed with a palm tree on the front. Two tickets fall from inside it and she sees that they are stamped 'GWR'. A suspicion begins to form in her mind and she opens the pamphlet. Inside are pictures of several opulent rooms - a dining room, two bedrooms, a sun terrace, a ballroom - all overlooking a blue horizon of sky and sea. 'Welcome to The Grand Hotel, Torquay' is printed in gold lettering beneath them.

"Patrick, is this what I think it is?" she asks quietly, hesitantly.

His eyes are twinkling at the hint of hopeful wonder he hears in her voice.

"Yes," he says simply. "Yes, I think it is."

He leans over and presses a kiss to her temple. His breath tickles her ear as he confirms it in a tone of quiet, joyful insistence: "I am finally going to take you on honeymoon, Mrs Turner. No quibbles or protestations. Everything is arranged."

"Everything?" she queries disbelievingly.

His reply comes in a statement of assured certainty: "Everything."

Apparently a small suitcase of his essential possessions has already been placed in the hands of Timothy's maternal grandparents who will be picking him up from school; a locum has been arranged in order to cover duties at the Maternity Hospital and to assist cases at Nonnatus House should the need arise; and Sister Julienne has re-jigged the nurse's rota, dividing up Shelagh's shifts for the next four days among colleagues who were only too eager to help once they learned the reason for the request. Shelagh listens quietly and squeezes Patrick's hand in gratitude when she realises that almost everyone but her has been in on their honeymoon plans. He further explains that their train is due to leave Paddington at 2pm and he has even taken the liberty of packing a few of her favourite items of clothing into a small suitcase, ready for her to add or remove whatever she sees fit.

She regards him fondly as he finishes his explanation: "Well Doctor, it seems as if you've thought of all eventualities."

As a satisfied smile appears on her husband's face she adds: "Except one."

"Oh?" he exclaims in surprise.

"You know I've often said how much I'd like to go bathing in the sea. Am I to do that in my underwear?" She raises her eyebrows at him: "Not that I suppose you'd mind such a spectacle, but I hardly think it's right and proper to impose such a sight on the good citizens of Torquay!"

He barks out a laugh and lifts the as-yet untouched tray of food from her lap, placing it back on the bedside table. He opens the drawer beneath it and removes a brightly-wrapped parcel which he gently places in her lap.

"I was going to save this until we arrived this evening, but as usual my darling, you have outmanoeuvred me." His grin shows her he doesn't mind in the slightest - she knows that he actually delights in her eager, questing mind and her tendency to second-guess him.

Beaming in delight she begins to remove the paper from the package, unfolding it carefully so as to preserve it intact.

"Ever the frugal Scot," he teases as he waits, ever-so-slightly impatiently for her to unwrap the contents.

Finally she folds back the last flap of paper to reveal a beautiful butterfly-printed swimsuit, trimmed with gold edging and complete with a modest ruffled skirt in the same material.

"Oh Patrick, it's lovely!" she breathes, tracing her fingers over the outline of a butterfly.

Unable to stop himself, he grins and reaches over to unfold it from her lap, holding it up for her to see properly.

"Chummy confirmed the measurements from your wedding dress. It should fit you like a glove." There is an unmistakeable hint of pride in his voice as he begins to tell her about the properties of the newly-manufactured material, until she reaches out affectionately to cup his jaw, stilling him from going into any further unnecessary detail.

"I love it," she states simply. "Not because of the fit or the cut or the material. But because you chose it for me. It's perfect."

"The butterflies?" he asks knowingly.

"The butterflies," she affirms back, smiling with the wistfulness of shared memory. The day after they had become engaged she had shared with him her nervousness at first arranging to meet him in newly-acquired civilian clothes; to be devoid of the comfort and protection of the habit but revealed to him as the real woman long-hidden beneath it was a terrifying prospect. He had reassured her that it was not her outward form he had fallen in love with, but her mind, her soul, her spirit. "Although you are beautiful," he had added. "So unprepossessingly beautiful because you don't even have a sense of it."

He had likened her transformation to that of butterfly emerging from a chrysalis; still the same creature as before, yet utterly transformed by a new guise which allowed the outer expression of the beauty held within. The metaphor had touched her deeply. Although she would never have the pre-occupation with her appearance of someone like Trixie, still she liked to present herself in a manner which was pleasing to the eye - at least to one eye in particular. It still thrills her to see the occasional, unguarded look on Patrick's face when she walks into a room - the subtle intake of breath as he takes in her face, her hair, her clothes, as if she has been revealed to him for the first time all over again.

She leans in and kisses him softly. "Thank you Patrick. For everything."

He catches her meaning and swallows back the emotion which is suddenly rising in his throat: "You _are_ everything, my love."

He pulls her to him and she sinks into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He anoints the top of her head with another kiss, then seems to gather himself as he gently pulls back:

"Right, you've got some packing to do and a hearty breakfast to eat before we catch our train. Why don't you stay here and enjoy it while I see to Timothy?"

"Don't go yet," she implores as he moves towards the edge of the bed. "Timothy can sleep for another twenty minutes or so and still get to school on time. Stay and help me eat this lovely salmon. I'm quite sure I can't manage all this amount by myself."

He knows that it is a little white lie, that she is asking because it is simply in her nature to share whatever bounty she is blessed with, and that she will always seek to share it with him. That knowledge - humbling and inspiring in equal measure - combined with the plea he sees in her eyes is more than enough to sway him. He reaches for the tray - "All right then" - and settles back down with it on his lap before moving it back over on to hers. She places one piece of toast onto a napkin and hands it to him. "Bon Appetit," she salutes as she takes a bite. The look on her face tells him it is very much to her taste and he smiles in quiet delight. They eat in contented silence, before a shout from the landing a few moments later tells them that Timothy is up and has yet again mislaid his school tie.

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A few hours later, prepared and packed, they are on the platform at Paddington, two small suitcases at their feet.

"Darling, have you been to Torquay before?" she asks curiously. He has been extolling its virtues for the length of their wait so far, though he hasn't yet mentioned if his praise is down to first-hand experience.

"An uncle of mine was sent there for rehabilitation after he lost his eyesight during the war," he explains. "There is a place called Manor House which acts as a national centre for newly-blind people. It helps them to adapt to coping with their condition in everyday life. I never visited him there myself but we spoke on the phone often. He adored the place; the smell of sea air and the warmth of the sunshine. He even claimed to love the sound of the seagulls. I suppose when you lose one sense, anything which stimulates the others can be considered a wonder..."

"And is he still there?" she asks, thinking it might be delightful to meet another of Patrick's family members.

"No, sadly not," he answers wistfully. "The unit can only accommodate referrals for a year at best. When a patient is deemed able to cope they are discharged and returned home. Uncle Peter never really settled back into London life; he died due to an undiagnosed blood clot in 1947 after falling down the steps outside his house. His case is one of the reasons I'm so passionate about the NHS. If he had received proper care at the time he might still be alive today."

She slips her hand into his and rests her other on his arm: "I'm so sorry darling," she says gently.

He places his hand on top of hers and caresses it. "Don't be sorry. You're part of the solution. I've seen the passion and dedication you bring to your work, the compassion with which you treat your patients, and I know we are both on the right road."

She smiles somewhat sadly and so he leans down to invade her personal space, catching her eye and telling her in a hushed voice: "And it's one of the many reasons I fell in love with you..." He steals a quick kiss and straightens up to see a slight blush creeping up her cheeks; even after six months of marriage she can still become adorably embarrassed by displays of affection from him, particularly in busy public places

She is spared from any teasing he might have in mind by the arrival of their West Country-bound train. They are able to avail themselves of an empty compartment and so Shelagh doesn't resist when he takes her hand and sits cradling it in his lap as the train pulls out of the station.

He seems to be musing on something before he finally ventures a suggestion: "You know, it's a five hour journey to Torquay. You could always try to get some sleep on the way."

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" she asks, genuinely surprised that he would be willing to pass up the rare opportunity to sit and talk in lengthy uninterrupted togetherness.

A twinkle appears in his eye and he leans into her. Sotto voce he replies: "Because my darling, you might need it. I fully intend to spend the whole of tonight making love to my beautiful wife."

The blush that colours her cheeks this time is instantly crimson and she inadvertently glances round the compartment lest someone might somehow be within earshot, despite the fact that they have it to themselves.

"Patrick!" she admonishes. But by now there is gentle amusement in her eyes and a hint of something more - an ember of desire - sparking within her.

"We'll see," she finally concedes and he smiles lovingly at her, knowing what is in her heart and mind as well as he knows what is in his own.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Despite her protestations, she does in fact fall into a light doze during the course of the journey, her head listing to one side and resting comfortably on his shoulder. She returns to wakefulness just as the train is pulling out of Exeter station.

"Nearly there," he assures her, squeezing her hand, still cradled in his lap. She sees they have been joined by an elderly couple who are sitting on the seat opposite, and she smiles a somewhat embarrassed greeting to them.

"Have you had a long journey then m'dears?" the woman asks in a kindly tone.

"Four and a bit hours," Patrick replies on their behalf. And then, apropos of nothing but pride at having his beautiful wife at his side, he tells them: "We're on a delayed honeymoon."

"Oh, congratulations!" the woman beams. "Did you 'ear that, Sidney? They be on their 'oneymoon"

Her husband nods and issues a somewhat gruff "Aye" before returning his attentions to the crossword puzzle on his lap.

"Don't you mind 'im," the woman assures Shelagh as she notices the smile playing on her lips. "E don't say much but I know what 'e's thinking. Inn't that right Sidney?"

Another "Aye" follows, less gruff and more conciliatory this time. She looks at him fondly and confides: "We took our 'oneymoon ten years and four girls after we got wed. We 'ad a weekend down 'ere and we loved it so much that 'e moved us all down within a year. Got a job on a trawler, sorted us out a fisherman's cottage and told me with a week to spare. I 'ad the devil's own job packing up the 'ousehold and four girls, didn't I Sidney?"

Her husband looks up then and nods as if only just noticing Shelagh and Patrick's presence for the first time. But his words suggest otherwise: "Best thing I ever did, marrying this 'un. God bless you both, I 'ope you'll be as 'appy as Gracie and me 'ave been."

Shelagh is touched by the sentiment and by the mutual devotion she sees in the elderly couple. "Thank you," she states simply. She feels Patrick squeeze her hand in a gesture which she knows to mean that he shares her feelings. "I'm sure we will be," she adds.

"I know we will be," he affirms, and his tone draws her eyes irresistibly to his. She sees his certainty there once more, the same depth of love and adoration and devotion which he had first revealed to her on that misty road seven months previously. He raises her hand to his lips and bestows a reverent kiss there, his gaze never leaving her face.

This time it is the elderly woman who is embarrassed, feeling as if she is intruding on a private, unspoken conversation. "Let me 'elp you with eleven down," Shelagh hears her tell her husband.

When she tears her eyes away from Patrick's, the couple are both hunched over the crossword puzzle, quietly discussing possible words and answers.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

They say a polite but warm goodbye to the couple as they alight at a tiny station quaintly named Starcross. By now the sea is plainly visible, small waves lapping gently at a pebbled beach beyond the platform. They sit quietly and marvel at the scenery for the remainder of the journey, arcing along the coast, through tunnels cut into the cliff side, alongside fishing vessels and pleasure boats and on past a narrowing estuary until the train finally chugs to a halt at their destination.

As Patrick gallantly helps her down from the carriage, she sees a liveried bellboy holding up a sign reading 'Dr & Mrs Turner'. At a nod from Patrick he is at their side, picking up their suitcases and saying: "Welcome to Torquay, Doctor. If you'll follow me please." His brusque manner and quick stride catch Shelagh unawares and she catches hold of Patrick's arm as he moves to follow him. "Wait, are we walking to the hotel from here? Should we not get a cab?"

Patrick grins at her and gestures to a large white turreted building just beyond the platform boundary. "The Grand Hotel, Torquay" he announces. "Or at least I believe that's the rear of it. We have a room at the front. Shall we?" He crooks his arm and she slips hers through it, reassured and contented. They walk arm-in-arm after the bellboy who is by now rounding the corner ahead of them. As they reach it Shelagh is stopped in her tracks by the panoramic view before her. The hotel is set back from the road, overlooking the wide sweeping arc of the bay. A hazy horizon is flecked by shimmering sunlight reflected off the rippling water. She thinks it one of the most beautiful views she has ever seen. A squeeze of her arm tells her that her husband is waiting to proceed, so she tears her eyes away from the horizon and they ascend the steps to the hotel entrance.

Checked in and shown to their room on the fifth floor, Shelagh finds herself walking into one of the very bedrooms pictured on the pamphlet from earlier that day. A large four poster bed dominates the room but her eyes are immediately drawn to the large sash window at the front. As Patrick retrieves their luggage and tips the bellboy, she moves to stand and gaze at the view once more.

"Oh Patrick, it's breathtaking." She feels his arms slip round her waist and his lips press a tender kiss to her neck. "Absolutely beautiful," he affirms, kissing her neck again. "Stunning." Another kiss, on her jaw this time. "Gorgeous." A kiss on her earlobe. She swats his arm playfully and instructs "Stop trying to seduce me Dr Turner and take a look at the view we have."

"Oh I'm sorry, were you talking about the view from the window?" She giggles and rewards him by turning and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "You know I was! You are incorrigible sometimes..." Amusement and affection warm her voice but he reluctantly releases her nonetheless, though not before murmuring in her ear: "And you are just irresistible."

"There'll be plenty of time for all that later," she says matter-of-factly and he is immediately reminded of her hinted response on the train earlier, of his stated intention to spend the night making love to her. He manages to tamp down his desire and offers her his arm.

"All right then. Shall we take a stroll along the sea front? I'd like to treat you to a fish and chip supper. Uncle Peter used to sing the praises of a place on the harbourside. He said it served the best cod in the best batter he'd ever tasted. Better even than smoked salmon."

She smiles in delight and they make their way out of the room and back out of the hotel to cross the road and walk alongside the shimmering sea, now suffused in a golden wash from the slowly sinking sun.

A delicious meal is followed by a carriage ride back to the hotel, the lights of the bay twinkling in appropriately fairytale fashion en route. Feelings intensified by the luxurious pleasure of a whole day spent in each other's company, their first two bouts of love making that night are fierce and frantic; their actions fuelled by a passion for each other which they can barely contain. Their third, several hours later, is more leisurely and languorous - filled with love and laughter as they take sensual delight in exploring each others bodies in a room slowly being illuminated by the lengthening beams of the now-rising sun. For the very first time it is Shelagh who initiates the act, pressing herself full length against her husband's sleeping form and gently kissing him to wakefulness.

Now he is asleep once more, his head resting alongside her breast and his arm draped protectively around her middle. His hair is akimbo, messily flopping down over his eyes, stubbornly resisting her attempts to brush it back into place. She lies gratefully beside him, her eyes switching alternately between watching the sun rise through the un-shuttered window and gazing at his dear, restful face. She fancies he is younger and less careworn than ever in sleep. The lines which life has etched into his features seem to drop away when he is lying next to her, contentment soothing his brow, serenity smoothing his cheeks. She curls her hands round the solid warmth of his forearm where it cradles her and offers up a silent prayer of thanks to God for all that He has given her by bringing them together. She can see the future stretching out in front of them; days, weeks, months and years of the deepest love, of the dearest companionship and of the most divine blessings, and she knows that this time together is theirs to treasure.

**_To be continued..._**


	6. As Time Goes By - Part II

**_Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. I have loved writing this story and the feedback and encouragement I've received makes it even more worthwhile. _**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to their real life counterparts, to Jennifer Worth & Heidi Thomas and to Laura Main & Stephen McGann (but mainly to each other) ;-)_**

Patrick's Birthday

By 11.30am Shelagh is aware that her well-laid plans have now been well and truly scuppered. Ironically enough, her intention to reciprocate Patrick's treat of breakfast in bed has been foiled by the intervention of someone who will very soon share his birthday.

"That's it Mrs Halloran, keep taking quick breaths now. When you feel this next contraction I want you to bear down with all your might. All right?"

The woman nods and then lets out a fearsome moan as another contraction ripples through her lower body. "That's it! Push now Mary, push as hard as you can. See, your baby can't wait to be born. Not long now!"

Shelagh can feel the head crowning and knows that everything is going like clockwork. The notion causes her thoughts to turn to the bedside cabinet where she has stowed both of Patrick's birthday gifts. One she had planned to present to him over a breakfast of lovingly-prepared eggs Benedict, the other she is intending to keep until they retire that evening. She smiles to herself now as she thinks of the reaction it will elicit.

Unfortunately he had been roused by the telephone on his side of the bed just before 7.00am that morning. Rather than it being the anticipated request for his services, a breathless Trixie had explained that Sister Evangelina had been called to the London where Sister Monica Joan was being treated for a suspected fractured wrist. All of the other midwives were out on calls and Mr Halloran had just rung to say his wife's labour had started in the early hours, ten days earlier than expected. "Please send your wife round as soon as you can Doctor. I don't think we can cope without her."

He had relayed the urgent details and Shelagh had been dressed and out of the door within fifteen minutes, Patrick dressing at the same time so that he could speed her to the Peadbody Buildings in his trusty MG. There had only been time for a brief brush of her lips against his and a whispered "Thank you darling, and Happy Birthday!" before she had been spirited away by an anxious Mr Halloran who had been pacing up and down outside the flats awaiting her arrival. Despite the early onset labour the baby's heartbeat was strong and everything had progressed to order. In a little while, she thinks, the baby will be born and she can start to formulate a new plan to present her gift to Patrick.

She knows that her husband will currently be on his rounds and she is unlikely to see him much before 6pm, the time when consultations at the Maternity Home are scheduled to finish. She has her own pre-natal visits to carry out in Poplar so there is little chance she will be able to visit him beforehand. An idea begins to form in her mind and she tucks it away for further consideration later, after this baby has been safely delivered.

Another ferocious cry emanates from the woman on the bed in front of her and Shelagh focuses on supporting the head and shoulders of the tiny infant as he finally begins to make his way out into the world.

A short while later she is wrapping the little boy in a towel and placing him in the arms of a beaming Mrs Halloran. Despite attending hundreds – if not thousands – of deliveries over the years, Shelagh finds herself welling up at the sight of this new mother greeting her new baby for the very first time. She wraps her arms around her middle in comfort, watching enchanted and enthralled as introductions are made.

"Hello, little one," his mother coos. "You didn't 'ang around did ya?" She looks up at Shelagh. "'E's all right ain't 'e nurse? What with being this early 'an all?"

"He's an absolutely perfect little boy, Mrs Halloran," Shelagh reassures her. "He has all ten fingers, all ten toes, just one head and one you-know-what." The mother bursts out laughing at Shelagh's unexpected inventory. It is a line she has used several times since she became Nurse Turner and it never fails to raise a smile at the very least. At first it had been a perfect way to break the unspoken tension felt in the company of patients more accustomed to seeing her in a wimple and to referring to her as Sister Bernadette. Many had been unsure how to address her at all, let alone being comfortable alluding to her married name. Thankfully those days are long past and it is the fact that she remains a highly sought-after midwife by the women of Poplar that matters most. Her professionalism and her integrity are no longer in question and, truth-be-told, never were to the extent she and Patrick had once feared.

She recalls the first delivery they had worked on together as husband and wife seven months previously; the parents had been barely more than children themselves - sixteen and seventeen years-old respectively Shelagh had discovered through her pre-natal visits - and this, unsurprisingly, was their first-born. The mother was even younger in character than she was in looks and years, a lonely wee girl with no other family members to call upon other than her wet-behind-the-ears fiancé.

He had explained that they'd eloped together for fear of what her father might do to him once the pregnancy was revealed. They had ended up in Poplar to seek help from a distant cousin who had no room and no time for them. Their 'home' such as it was was a tiny flat in a soon-to-be- demolished tenement block near the dockyards where Billy, the father-to-be, had managed to find occasional work. Despite their youth and appalling living conditions, Shelagh had been moved by the determination they showed to stay together, to do right by each other and by their baby. Learning that the girl - Josie - had been an only child, now estranged from her widowed father, Shelagh felt the need to offer them friendship and protection even more keenly.

They in turn had been enchanted to hear her own account of how she had met and married Dr Turner. "It's like something out of a Hollywood fairytale!" Josie had declared. Shelagh had smiled at her youthful naivety and pointed out that the reality wasn't quite so romantic as she might imagine. "Yes it is!" Josie had rebuked her, as only a headstrong young girl could: "I saw you at the clinic that one time. It was like you couldn't take your eyes off each other. That's what me and Billy are going to be like when we get wed."

When the call had come through from a panicked Billy to say that Josie's waters had broken and that she was screaming blue murder every five minutes, Shelagh had asked Cynthia to summon Dr Turner to the address and they had all converged there within fifteen minutes of each other.

Patrick had had to fetch gas and air while Shelagh attempted to calm the terrified young girl down, her screams of pain and fear crescendo-ing with each new contraction. It soon became apparent that the pain relief was having little effect and the mother's distress was worsening. Shelagh's starkest fears had been realised when she had checked on the baby's progress.

"Cord prolapse," she had whispered urgently to Patrick. He had immediately sent Cynthia out to call for the obstetric Flying Squad, but Shelagh realised from the grim look on his face that they could not possibly arrive in time to save the baby. His sleeves rolled up, he scrubbed his forearms with iodine and donned a pair of gloves while attempting to speak to the distressed young woman: "Josie, listen to me, please. I need you to stay calm, but I need you to know your baby is not receiving enough blood supply at the moment. Now we need to get baby delivered as quickly as possible. I want you to..." But his words were drowned out as she started screaming all the more: "No, no! My baby, please, not my baby! Billy! Billy!? Where is he, I want my Billy!" At this she fell into strangulated sobs, her body racked with convulsions which made it almost impossible for Shelagh to hold her steady while Patrick tried to examine her.

"We need to get her off the bed and on her knees. Right now!" he had exclaimed. "Where is Cynthia!?"

She could hear the edge of panic in his voice and knew, even between the two of them, that manoeuvring the hysterical mother into the required knee-to-chest position would be nigh on impossible.

She had made the decision there and then that somehow calming the girl down was the only course of action open to them, more important than sparing poor Billy the ordeal which was likely to follow. She ran to the door and called down for him. He raced up the three flights of stairs in no time and burst into the room to find Shelagh once again trying to steady his fiancee's thrashing legs so that Patrick could feel for the cord.

"Here!" Patrick had barked at the aghast lad. "Help me lift her off the bed. Take hold of her arms and hold them tight while I lift her legs. And for God's sake, try to soothe her. If she doesn't calm down she's going to lose this baby for certain!"

The young man did exactly what he was told. "Josie! Josie, sweetheart, listen to me. You gotta keep still. The doctor wants me to help move you. It's important for the baby." His voice had an immediate effect and her sobbing lessened. Between the two of them Patrick and Billy were able to move her to the sheet which Shelagh had spread on the floor beside the bed. She immediately swung into action, manoeuvring the girl so that her knees were pressed to her chest, her head down and her body tilted in such a way that Patrick could deal effectively with the prolapse. Billy continued to talk soothingly to her while Shelagh rubbed her back, all the while her eyes fixed on Patrick's face which was tight with determination.

Then she saw it: the look of triumph and relief. "It's free," he whispered and she knew they would be able to proceed with the birth as normal. She offered up a silent prayer of thanks and retrieved her pinard. When she located the baby's heartbeat she found it to be shallow but steady. She helped an exhausted Josie to kneel upright, letting her lean her weight on the bed while she talked her through the next contractions. "The head's engaged," she elatedly informed Patrick a minute later. By the time the baby's head began to crown she could hear footsteps clattering up the stairs. Cynthia directed the ambulance men into the room and they rushed to her side.

"It's all right chaps," she heard Patrick say. "Nurse Turner has got everything beautifully under control."

Josie and Billy's little girl had finally been born ten minutes later, a tiny four-and-a-half pound scrap of humanity with a lung capacity to rival that of her mother. By her lusty cries alone Shelagh knew she was a battler and, sure enough, her fists had been beating the air furiously as Cynthia weighed her shortly afterwards.

She had been christened four weeks later, named for God-parents who looked on with beaming pride. Bernadette Patricia was passed between them to coo over and dote upon endlessly, until they had in fact been forced to reluctantly relinquish her to her newly-wed parents, about to embark upon the journey back to their home town. In the week following the birth, Shelagh had been able to track down Josie's father and inform him of his daughter's new circumstances. He had wept unashamedly the first time his grand-daughter had been placed in his arms and he had hugged both Josie and Billy to him in gratitude and acceptance afterwards.

Shelagh had found she missed them and baby Bernie like the dickens at first, but regular correspondence and the occasional phone call helped to plug the gap. They had been delighted to hear of her honeymoon adventure and had once again extended an invitation for Shelagh, Patrick and Timothy to visit them in Lowestoft. She knows it is something she will have to arrange sooner rather than later, but for now she has more immediate plans afoot.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At 6pm on the dot she walks into the entrance to the Kenilworth Maternity Hospital hand-in-hand with a freshly-scrubbed and neatly-suited Timothy. Aside from wrangling him into bathing and changing after school, Shelagh has spent the past hour trying on each of her small number of dresses before returning to her first choice: a simple yellow print dress with a full skirt, a white butterfly motif embroidered along its hem. She has matched it with a short white bolero jacket and a pale lemon flower hair accessory which nestles in her upswept do. She knows full well the effect her outfit will have on her husband; he had helped to select it for her when they had browsed in a little boutique in Torquay several weeks ago. "Like the sunrise," he had beamed when she had emerged from the dressing area to model it for him.

She greets the receptionist at the front desk warmly and asks if she will ring through to Dr Turner's office to inform him he has visitors. "Certainly, Mrs Turner. Why don't you take a seat?"

Timothy eagerly seizes on a comic he finds in the waiting area while Shelagh waits nervously. Patrick arrives breathlessly a couple of minutes later and is stopped in his tracks by the sight of his family sitting, primed and preened, in the foyer. Shelagh stands and moves towards him, taking his arm and steering him out of sight of Timothy who is still engrossed in the comic.

"Happy Birthday darling," she greets him, suddenly giddy with happiness that she is finally putting her idea into motion. Before she can stop herself she is drawing him down for a swift but loving kiss, her hands slipping round to caress the back of his neck. His hands settle at her waist and he reciprocates in surprise and delight.

"Thank you!" he beams enthusiastically when they part.

"I'm sorry to be so brazen, Patrick. I've missed you. I had all these plans for your birthday this morning but..."

"The Halloran baby had other ideas," he finishes for her, eyes still twinkling. "What did they have?"

"A wee boy. Perfectly fine and absolutely gorgeous."

"Talking of which," - his eyes sweep up and down her figure - "you look stunning. Are you going somewhere special Mrs Turner?"

She swats his arm playfully and laughs: "We're taking you out for a birthday supper. Why don't you go and get changed? Timothy and I will wait here for you."

As he turns to leave she adds, "Oh, and Patrick?" He turns to find her reaching into her small drawstring handbag. "I brought you a tie which might be a little more appropriate."

He looks down at the navy herringbone one he has mis-matched with his green suit and smiles ruefully as he takes the "more appropriate" version from her outstretched hand.

Within ten minutes, tie exchanged and hair neatly combed, he is taking her arm and descending the front steps of the hospital, Timothy trailing behind them.

"Where are we going?" he asks as they reach the street, curiosity nibbling away at him.

"You'll find out in due course," she answers mysteriously, raising her arm to wave to a man he now notices sitting in an old-fashioned car nearby. As it pulls to a stop in front of them he recognises Jimmy, Jenny Lee's one-time beau.

Warm greetings are exchanged and Timothy excitedly baggsies himself a seat in the front, clambering in and surveying the walnut dashboard and leather-trimmed controls with wonder.

"Now don't touch anything please Timothy," his father admonishes. "This is a very rare car." As he and Shelagh settle in the back, hand-in-hand, he says to Jimmy conversationally: "I thought I'd heard you were selling this old jalopy?"

"I was. Or at least Francine wanted me to before the baby arrived. But we managed to reach a compromise; now I lease it to a friend of mine. He's a real pal, still lets me drive it on occasions - or special occasions. Speaking of which: Happy Birthday old chap!"

"And how is the baby?" Shelagh interjects eagerly before Patrick can object to the "old" appellation.

Jimmy's tone turns wistful: "She's wonderful! Although she's not exactly a baby any more - can you believe she turns two next month!? That little girl has given me more grey hairs and more sleepless nights in these past couple of years than any man should ever have to put up with!"

"But she's worth it," Patrick suggests, recognising the look of paternal pride on Jimmy's face.

"Absolutely!" he enthuses, catching Patrick's eye in the rear view mirror. Leaning forward to ruffle his son's hair affectionately Patrick affirms it: "Children are such a blessing. They really are..."

"Dad!" Timothy objects, furiously trying to smooth his hair back down into the neat order Shelagh had earlier tamed it into.

She squeezes Patrick's hand affectionately and, while Jimmy begins to describe the various features of the instrument panel to a fascinated Timothy, he takes the opportunity to steal a quick kiss. "Thank you for all this," he whispers, his arm snaking round her waist.

She rests her head on his shoulder in response. As the car closes in on their destination she can't help but feel blissfully content with the here-and-now, yet full of joyful anticipation for the night that lies ahead.

Several minutes later the car is crunching to a stop on a gravel path in front of a majestically-domed building.

"Where are we Dad?" Timothy asks, Shelagh having been as secretive with him as she had been with his father.

"This is the Royal Observatory, son. We're in Greenwich."

They clamber out of the car and Jimmy pops open the boot to retrieve a large picnic hamper which he hands to a bemused Patrick.

"What's this?" he asks his wife who is trying - but failing miserably - to hide her amusement at his bewildered expression.

"Your birthday supper of course," she replies. "I thought we could eat it at the Meridian Line. You can tell Timothy all about being at the centre of the earth."

"We're going to the centre of the earth?!" the boy in question pipes up in a tone of awe and amazement. As Shelagh busies herself with arranging a time for Jimmy to pick them up, it is left to Patrick to explain that they won't in fact be burrowing into the earth's core.

"I know that Dad!" Timothy exclaims in an exasperated tone. "We did it in Geology last year at school. Mr Hutchinson said no-one would be able survive if they did - it's far too hot!"

Feeling thoroughly chastised and slightly ashamed for not keeping abreast of his son's schooling, Patrick asks if any lessons have covered the Meridian Line which they are now walking towards through the parkland.

"We haven't done Greenwich Mean Time yet. I think we're going to be studying it in science next term. Is this really where time starts for the whole world?"

Timothy's enthusiasm is infectious and, as Shelagh lays out the contents of the picnic on the blanket secured to the top of the hamper, father & son venture off to examine the degrees of latitude and longitude marked nearby.

"We've been all over the world!" Timothy tells her eagerly when they return. "I walked down the centre of the line, so Dad says I had one foot in the Eastern Hemisphere and one in the Western Hemisphere. Dad says that means one half of me was going forward in time and one was going backward. Did you know it's already tomorrow in Australia!?"

Shelagh listens with rapt attention as Timothy tells her all about how sailors once navigated the oceans using the stars to tell their positioning, and once again she marvels at her husband's quiet erudition and at how Timothy is able to soak up information from him like a sponge. She knows she has been instrumental in allowing them to spend more time in each others company and she marvels at the benefits it has brought; since they became a family she has seen Timothy's confidence blossom and his father's affection towards him become much more freely given. Once again she offers up a silent prayer of thanks to God for all the myriad blessings their marriage has bestowed on them, past and present.

Once they have eaten and Patrick has packed away all the crockery and cutlery once more, he settles back down beside her and gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "That was lovely - this is lovely. What made you chose Greenwich? Because Timothy loves it here - we'll have to bring him back down when the Observatory is open so I can show him the constellations. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

Shelagh smiles at his eager enthusiasm, so very reminiscent of his son's. "I knew you'd both like it here. And I've always wanted to have a picnic under the stars. Not that you can see any of them just yet mind." She surveys the sky, slowly dimming in the pale evening sunshine.

"Yes you can!" interrupts Timothy. "There!" He points out a bright dot, visible just to the side of the sinking sun. "That's a star isn't it Dad?"

"Well done Timothy. Yes, that's Venus. It's sometimes called Earth's sister. Or sometimes it's known as the Morning Star and sometimes it's known as the Evening Star. Some ancient societies actually used to believe it was two separate stars. Remember I was telling you earlier about the order of the planets? Well Venus is the closest planet to the Earth."

"Dad, can I have two sixpences to use the telescope please? I want to see it closer up!" They had come across a map of the constellations earlier, adjacent to a large green telescope in the grounds of the Observatory.

Patrick fishes in his pocket and proffers the said coins to Timothy. "Off you go then. Don't go wondering too far away though. Jimmy will be back to pick us up in an hour's time.

As Timothy scurries off with a hasty "Thanks Dad!" thrown over his shoulder, Patrick takes Shelagh's hand and draws it to his lips.

"You know Venus is also known as the planet of love? Perfectly appropriate for this evening don't you think?" He kisses her hand once more. "Thank you for arranging such a wonderful birthday, my darling. When you both showed up at the hospital so smartly dressed I feared you might be taking me to one of those terribly stuffy hotels in the West End. I'm so glad I was wrong! One question though..." He places his hand over his heart: "Why were you concerned that I change into a more appropriate tie when we're just having a picnic in a park by ourselves?"

She laughs softly to herself at his disastrous fashion sense before replying: "Well, apart from the fact that the previous one was totally the wrong colour to go with what you've got on," - he looks down at his green suit and ruefully concedes that navy probably wasn't the best match for it - "the tie you're wearing now is the one you were wearing when you proposed to me..."

Her voice has turned wistful and she reaches out to lay her palm flat against the silky fabric, stroking her fingers over his chest, stirred by the memory. He rests his hand over hers and she can tell he is sharing her delight in the recollection, the joy of that day reflected in their faces as they meet each others eyes. She smiles indulgently before her gaze drifts down to his tie once again.

"Besides, why shouldn't I want my dashingly-handsome doctor to look at his best, even if we are only having a picnic?"

"Dashingly-handsome?" he smirks, raising his eyebrows. "You've never called me that before."

"You've never asked me to!" she teases. "But, for the record Dr Turner, I do think you scrub up quite well..." She giggles and leans in for a quick kiss, "...for a stuffy old doctor that is."

"Hey!" he protests, "Less of the stuffy." It is one of the chief delights of their marriage that she has turned something which was once of great concern to him - their near-fifteen year age gap - into a shared private joke, one which she rarely misses an opportunity to tease him about. He has grown unconcerned with the facts and figures; as she had once told him, if he can forego the potential for far greater wealth and status by choosing to minister to the very poorest and neediest, then he can bear the occasional comment about their ages, safe in the knowledge that she has chosen him for _who_ he is, nothing more.

"Anyway, how could you think I'd want to take you to some stuffy hotel?" she asks, feigning indignation.

"It was only a fleeting thought my love," he says soothingly. "because you were both dressed up to the nines. By the way, did I tell you how beautiful you look this evening?" He brushes his knuckle down her cheek affectionately as she bathes him in the sweetest of smiles.

"I'm so glad I was wrong about the hotel - this has been the perfect evening. I think Timothy has enjoyed it as much as I have. You know, we both have you to thank for making us a proper family again."

She feels tears threatening at the import of his words; she squeezes his hand in unspoken gratitude as she tries to swallow them back. He loosens his grip and cups her face in his palms instead. Leaning in, he slowly moves his mouth to hers and bestows a kiss upon her lips which is in equal parts gentle, reverent and tender. As they part he rests his forehead against hers and sighs: "I love you so much. I don't tell you that often enough."

She pulls back to meet his gaze, more composed now. "Yes you do," she states quietly, insistently. "You might not always say the words, but you show me every day. I've been so blessed..."

She turns in his arms then, nestling back against his chest and drawing his arms round her so that she is cradled against him. Once she is settled he presses a kiss to her cheek and murmurs, "I'm the one who's blessed..."

"Hmmm..." she sighs. "Talking of which, I haven't given you your present yet," she reminds him.

"I thought this was my present? Spending a wonderful evening with my wife and son in a beautiful setting. What more could a man want?"

She reaches for her handbag and draws out a small parcel wrapped in silver paper which she offers to him nervously: "Well, hopefully this...?"

His arms still circling her, she shifts slightly so that she will be able to see his face as he opens it. A square leather box is inside and he turns it over in his hands, seeing his initials embossed on the top. Intrigued, he prises the lid open and lets out a small gasp of surprise when he sees the contents. Nestled in the satin lining is a silver pocket watch on a chain, its face an inky blue and adorned with tiny representations of the very planets he had just sent Timothy off to view.

"This is exquisite," he says, lifting it out of its case. Shelagh finds herself holding her breath as he examines it carefully. Finally, after gazing at the intricate detail on the watch face for what seems like an age, he turns it over. On the back, engraved into the silver, are the words:

P -  
Our love  
is timeless  
Always,  
- S

He brushes his finger over the inscription and then turns his head back towards her, nuzzling his lips against her neck, his arms tightening round her middle. She feels as much as hears his next words, his voice muffled and his breath hot against her skin: "Oh Shelagh, my angel... I love it." He holds up the watch to look at it again, wonder in his eyes. "When did...? How...?"

"I used some of the money which was returned to me when I left the Order," she explains. Sister Julienne recommended the watch smith to me when I told her what I had in mind for your birthday. I couldn't resist this one." - she reaches out to brush her fingers over the casing. "Remember you once told me you'd give me the stars if you could? Well I thought I would give them to you instead." Her eyes are twinkling at his reaction which is every bit as awed as she'd dared to hope.

"I love it," he says again simply, "And I love you." She turns her head to allow him to kiss her then, losing herself in him, sinking further into his embrace and feeling his arms circling protectively around her.

It is the sound of thudding footsteps and a shrill cry of "Dad! Dad!" which finally causes them to break apart. Shelagh straightens up and tries to regain her composure as Timothy comes skidding to a halt in front of them, either oblivious to the clinch they had been in or - more likely, Shelagh thinks - grown accustomed to seeing them displaying affection - albeit not usually quite so demonstrably in public. She finds herself blushing slightly, but luckily neither of the Turner males seems to notice.

"What is it son?" Patrick asks as Timothy leans over to try to catch his breath.

"Dad, I think I've spotted a constellation through the telescope. Would you come and have a look? I want to know if I'm right or not."

It touches Shelagh how much the young boy still seeks his father's approval in so many areas. In fact it had been something she'd pointed out to Patrick one weekend not long after their wedding, when Timothy's persistent requests for his Dad to play chess had elicited a somewhat weary and snappy response. Seeing Timothy's terribly hurt reaction she had offered herself as a substitute, only for Timothy to explain, somewhat tearily, that he had been practicing the 'French Defence' opening move at Chess Club, a move which Patrick had taught him three weeks previously. The discussion which subsequently took place between Dr & Mrs Turner was one of the first times that they had had cross words, as Shelagh took him aside and told him not to be so hard on the poor lad when he was only trying to please him. Once she had explained that Timothy was upset and why, Patrick had relented immediately, apologising to his son and challenging him to a 'best of three' match-up. The fact that Patrick won all three was of no matter; the pride with which Timothy showed off some of his newly-acquired prowess during the games had been enough to bring a quiet smile of satisfaction to Shelagh's lips.

Seven months down the line she knows Patrick has become much more attuned to Timothy's needs. He springs up now, turning and helping her to her feet while responding to his son's request, "Come on then! We'll all take a look."

He tucks his gift carefully into his pocket and picks up the hamper while Shelagh gathers up the blanket. He holds out his hand and she twines her fingers through his as they begin the stroll back towards the Observatory. Once there they all take turns to peer through the telescope at the darkening sky. With Patrick's help she is eventually able to make out the constellation which Timothy had identified earlier - Virgo, the same as his birth sign. She listens enchanted as Patrick fills Timothy in on some of the facts about the formation and history of the constellation; they learn that it is the second largest of all the constellations and most closely associated with myths of fertility and harvest goddesses throughout history. He recounts some of the myths for them and is even able to name the stars which make up the main points of the formation.

"I didn't realise you were the fount of all knowledge!" she teases him when Timothy is once again engrossed in scanning the skies. "Ah well, there's a lot of things you don't know about me yet," he twinkles back. "That's all part of wedded bliss; I just keep unfolding like a flower, don't I...?" She giggles at his imagery and leans into to whisper to him: "There are one or two things you might learn about me soon as well..." Her mind returns to the second birthday gift still stashed in the bedside cabinet and she smiles to herself once again as she envisages her husband's reaction.

"What?" he says, catching it. "What are you smiling about Mrs Turner?"

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough Dr Turner," she pouts and presses a quick kiss to his lips.

His eyes darken as his pupils dilate and she can tell _exactly_ where his thoughts are heading. "Patrick!" she exclaims in mock disapproval, but there is as much amusement in her eyes as there is in his.

"Dad, I think Jimmy's coming back!" Timothy interrupts, the telescope now horizontal and directed at the horizon where the park's entrance lies.

Sure enough, their carriage soon awaits and Jimmy has them safely transported back to Poplar in good time. After allowing Timothy to stay up for a late night cocoa in honour of his father's birthday, Shelagh indulges him further by permitting him to read one final chapter, before tucking him into bed and saying goodnight. She returns to their bedroom to find Patrick similarly tucked in, or at least sitting up in bed in his striped pyjamas and inspecting his new pocket watch admiringly. He pats the bed beside him and she moves to sit on top of the bedclothes.

"This really is exquisite," he muses appreciatively. "I've never owned anything quite as beautiful as this. I'll treasure it for the rest of my life." He turns it over and re-reads the inscription. "Timeless," he murmurs.

"Yes," she replies. "We seemed to waste so much time beforehand, worrying about what was right and proper. And all along it was written in the stars."

She takes his free hand and moves it to her lap, caressing the worn knuckles and weathered skin just as carefully as he had once caressed a small cut on her palm. "We were meant to be together, I know that now. I truly believe that God set us on our respective paths knowing they would cross one day..."

He is watching her with devoted intensity, his thumb stroking across the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. It delights him to hear her speak with such certainty of their status in the here-and-now, especially after the many months of doubt and despair which preceded it.

"Do you think Timothy is happy with the way things have turned out?" she asks him. Her sudden change of tack catches him by surprise.

"Of course!" he exclaims immediately. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Oh, I don't know," she responds, "I'm probably just being a bit silly and over-emotional. I so wanted him to enjoy our family outing tonight. Do you really think he did?"

Her earnest questioning demands his total honesty: "Yes," he states with complete certainty. "He loved every minute of it. And he adores you as much as I do. I know that for a fact."

She smiles gratefully at him, reassured and relieved. Timothy had certainly been loving enough when she had kissed him goodnight not ten minutes before.

"Though I'm afraid you might have lied to him earlier..."

Her frown returns as she asks: "Oh? How so?"

"Well, the centre of the world isn't actually in Greenwich any more."

"It isn't?" she asks in surprise.

"No, it isn't. It's here, beside me in this bed."

He leans over, his face hovering above her, his eyes twinkling and looking lovingly into hers, even as they begin to pool with tears.

"Oh Patrick, you always know just what to say... But why do you have to say it when you know it will make me cry?" She swipes at her eyes and laughs simultaneously, caught up in the absurdity of the moment.

"I said it because it's true," he tells her in a low voice, leaning in for a kiss. "And because I love you."

She kisses him back and then giggles against his lips, joy bubbling through her at his words. His hand slides over her hip and she realises what she must do.

"Wait," she says, breaking away and sitting upright again. He tries to follow her but she places a palm, gently but firmly, on his chest and he moves back, slightly puzzled.

She takes his hand again and resumes her caress but doesn't meet his eye.

"I want to say something." He listens attentively but she seems to be having trouble knowing how to begin. She feels him squeeze her hand in encouragement and it prompts her to turn and give him a reassuring smile. She is aware how this must look to him.

She clears her throat and begins to deliver the words she has been rehearsing over and over in her mind for the past couple of weeks.

"Patrick, darling, you know I never had much occasion to celebrate my birthday previously, at least not since I was a wee girl, since before my mother died."

He squeezes her hand again and she returns the gesture in grateful acknowledgement of his unspoken sympathy.

"All that I required was one of Mrs B's cakes and the good wishes of the residents of Nonnatus House; they were perfectly sufficient ways to mark the occasion back then."

Her eyes dart over to him; he is still regarding her with rapt attention.

"Well this year was different - it was always going to be different. I actually allowed myself to become almost giddy with excitement at the thought of receiving presents from Timothy and from you," - she raises his hand and kisses his knuckle - "But I never could have expected that you would do so much for me." She pauses to take a deep breath and glances at his expectant face. "Patrick, what you gave me on my birthday, it was the most wonderful, the most perfect gift I've ever received."

He is smiling now, relief and pride etched on his face.

"So I want to return the favour," she announces. "I want to do the same for you."

His smile is replaced with a look of confusion, his brow starting to furrow. "You want to take me back to Torquay? Darling, we were only there a few weeks ago...?"

She smiles serenely and his perplexion only deepens as she retrieves a small white envelope from the bedside cabinet and hands it to him.

"I want you to open this," she says by way of cryptic explanation. He does so with mounting curiosity; inside he finds a single sheet of paper, simply inscribed "Give me your hand."

As soon as he begins to raise his arm she reaches out, her fingers covering his.

"Here," she says moving their joined hands to rest on her mid-section. "I'm afraid you won't be able to see or hold this present for another seven months or so, but both of us want you to know that we love you very much."

His eyes are wide with incredulous joy as they flicker between his now-trembling hand and her smiling face.

"A baby?" he whispers. "We're going to have a baby?"

She nods and all of a sudden there are tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her view of the ecstatic look, the pure boundless happiness, which is now shining from his face.

"Yes," she manages to choke out before being overcome by a series of sobs which seem to rise up from nowhere.

"Hey!" he protests. "Hey, come on. Shhh, don't cry! Darling, please don't cry..."

He is cradling her to him now, pressing her head towards his shoulder even as his hand remains caressing the slight swell of her tummy.

"Shhh, shhh, that's it. Hush now," he soothes. He is stroking her hair, moving it off her face and brushing away the tears streaking her cheeks.

He leans in to capture one stray tear with his lips and then does the same on the other side before pressing his mouth to hers in the tenderest of kisses. He pulls back to look at her with awed solemnity.

"We're going to have a baby," he states again, and there is a hushed certainty in his voice this time.

"Yes," she repeats, and this time she is smiling through her tears. "Yes we are."

He looks down to where his hand rests on her tummy. "How long have you known?" he asks quietly, unable to tear his eyes away, his fingers brushing gently, rhythmically over the material of her nightgown.

"Two weeks," she says. "Well nearly two weeks. I did the test myself at the clinic. You really had no idea?"

She looks at him fondly and he glances up before returning his gaze to her stomach. "Not a one. Had you suspected for long?"

"About the same length of time. I was due on the week after we got back from Torquay. When I didn't start I didn't think too much of it – I just assumed it was due to the excitement of the honeymoon. Then I missed again nearly a fortnight ago and I think that's when I knew..." She places her hand over his and smiles happily as he twines his fingers together with hers.

"I wanted to be absolutely sure before I told you. And when I was, I decided I wanted to give you this baby on your birthday... just like you gave it to me on mine."

She looks down and tightens her hold on his hand where it is cradling her tummy. "I think it's only just hit me properly now," she confides. "I've been so intent on arranging everything for your birthday and on how I was going to tell you. Now that I have, it just makes it all seem more real. That's probably why I burst into tears..."

"Well that and the fact that your hormones are probably all over the place," he suggests gently.

"You don't mind that I didn't tell you straight away, do you?" she asks, suddenly and unaccountably nervous once the question has been voiced.

"Of course not," he reassures her. "I love you all the more for it. I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful birthday present. A baby…?"

His tone is still steeped in wonder, his eyes awash with emotion. He leans down and presses a lingering kiss on the fabric covering her belly; her fingers curl in his hair as he does so.

"Our baby," she murmurs in gentle affirmation as he straightens up.

"Yes."

This time it is her turn to soothe him as he blinks back sudden tears. He rests his head in the crook of her neck and she feels a shiver run through his body as he draws closer for comfort.

"We make a great pair don't we?" she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes, I suppose we do," he agrees, drawing back to look her in the eye. "But we'll make great parents too. This little one will want for nothing. I promise…"

She smiles in heady delight as the realisation hits her anew that this wonderful man, this already doting father, is now a father-to-be and is soon to be the father to _their_ child.

She presses a gentle lingering kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she tells him simply. "From both of us."

He draws her in to his side and they settle further down on the bed, conversing quietly, cuddling closer and cradling the new life nestled within her, until eventually she feels her eyelids start to droop.

By the time Patrick slips the bedclothes down beneath her and then covers her up again she is already asleep and dreaming; of baby bumps and blue eyes, of big brothers and bibs, of breastfeeding and burping, and of a beautiful baby being bounced happily on their father's knee, while she sits alongside watching, bathed in the glow of love and light surrounding them.

_**To be **__**continued…**_

_**NB: Info about Greenwich Mean Time, the Meridian Line, the Royal Observatory, astrological constellations and their attendant mythological legends etc. has been gleaned from Wikipedia, so apologies for if there are any glaring errors.**_


End file.
